Andrew Flintoff enters the room for his weigh-in, surrounded by his entourage. You sense Flintoff has always wanted one of those. The kid from Preston would have dreamed of having an entourage. The England cricketer likewise. Now, at the age of 34, he is a professional boxer, and professional -boxers come with entourages.

There is not a little astonishment at his physique. More than four months in the gym have sculpted him. The -lovable porker we saw whirling his shirt around at Mumbai in 2002 has been chiselled down to this. It is more than all right for a fat lad.

This air of incredulity has not escaped Flintoff. "Contrary to popular belief, when I played cricket I used to train as well," he says. "And I had a diet, of sorts."

His trainer, one Barry McGuigan, has been impressed. "The effort that he's put in has been extraordinary," he says. "He's sparred over 300 rounds, lost three stone, and grafted the whole way through. And he loves the big occasion."

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This last bit we knew already. Flintoff stares directly into the haze of camera flashes, flexing his muscles for us. From the outstretched arms to the exhausted kneel, he has always been superb at posing. The spotlight becomes him. He looks content. He will be even more content tonight (Friday), when he fights the American Richard Dawson over four two-minute rounds at the MEN Arena.

In the midst of the throng is Ricky Hatton. He may be one of Britain's greatest boxers, but -Hatton's first professional fight was a good deal humbler than this. "Widnes Leisure Centre," he remembers. "I was on about a quarter past 12 at night. There was nobody in the place. It was only my mum and my dad and people sweeping up."

The word is that Flintoff is not bad. "Not once" in those 300 rounds of sparring did he go down, McGuigan says. What is Flintoff's greatest asset? "His distance control," replies -Barry's son Shane, who has been training him day-to-day. "He's able to hit a fighter, step back, and not get hit himself."

Dawson is unimpressed, not just by his opponent's skills, but by his pedigree. "I looked at some tapes of that cricket," he sneers. "It don't mean nothing to me. It looks like a female sport. You know, sissy stuff."

The pair could scarcely be more different. "I grew up in a real rough neighbourhood close to Tulsa," Dawson says. "There was drug -dealings and shootings happening the whole time.

"My best friend got shot and killed. I got shot in the back four times. I was sure I was going to die. When you been through stuff like that, do you think anything Mr Freddie is going to do is going to scare me?"

Flintoff's explanation of what compelled him to box looks tame by comparison with Dawson's tale of penury and petty crime. "It was an opportunity too good to pass up," he says.

"I finished playing cricket at 31, and I couldn't sit around doing nothing. I wanted to get back into professional sport at a time when I was drifting. I jumped off cliffs in Acapulco and rode bulls in Texas. I see Michael Vaughan doing Strictly [Come Dancing], but that's not for me. I want a real challenge."

This is a real challenge, all right. When Flintoff walks out tonight without a bat in his hand, there will be cheers. There may even be a few jeers. But there will also be fear. And for all the training and the black eyes, you suspect it is only then that Flintoff will truly understand what it is to box.